


What Lestrade Didn't Find on a Drugs Bust

by Loopy456



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-12
Updated: 2013-03-25
Packaged: 2017-11-29 01:46:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/681290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loopy456/pseuds/Loopy456
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Lestrade could kick himself. When he mentioned going upstairs to John’s room, it wasn’t embarrassment that had flooded John’s cheeks and his voice. It had been fear, actual proper fear, at what Lestrade might find. And now he knows why.</i>
</p><p>On a routine drugs bust after Sherlock's return, Lestrade actually finds drugs. But they aren't Sherlock's - John had issues while Sherlock was 'dead'.</p><p>
  <b>Written for a prompt on Kink Meme.</b>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. What Lestrade Didn't Find on a Drugs Bust

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt on Kink Meme:
> 
> _Sherlock's alive, the novelty has worn off, and everything is as back to as normal as it can be. Lestrade stages a "drugs bust" to irritate Sherlock after Sherlock does something. However, this time drugs are found. In John's room a large stash of pure oxycodone, a vial of antiemetic and a small bag of cocaine._
> 
> Trigger warnings - discussions of suicidal themes and drug use

John hears Mrs Hudson letting them in, so he’s not surprised at the stampede of feet up the stairs to his and Sherlock’s flat. What does surprise him, however, is the polite knock on the door that follows.

‘I’m fairly sure normal procedure is just to break the door down,’ he says casually, peering out at Lestrade and his assembled officers. The DI grimaces as John steps aside to allow them into the flat.

‘Sorry about this, John,’ he says, beckoning Donovan and the rest forward with a jerk of his head.

John shrugs amiably.

‘As long as you let me sit here and carry on reading, I don’t care,’ he grins. ‘Oh, but be careful with the cupboard to the right of the sink. Whoever opens that might want to have a strong stomach.’

Lestrade’s gaze flickers through into the kitchen, to where Donovan has just frozen with her hand extended towards the handle of that very cupboard.

‘What’s in here?’ she demands angrily.

‘You’d have to ask Sherlock,’ John shrugs. ‘I have decided to employ a “don’t ask” policy to these kinds of situations. I find it helpful for my blood pressure.’

‘Where is the man himself?’ Lestrade asks, looking around as though Sherlock may suddenly pop up from behind the sofa or something. Knowing him, it is not exactly unlikely. Stranger things have happened.

‘Out,’ John supplies helpfully. ‘Somewhere.’

‘Probably decided a drugs bust was imminent and scarped,’ Lestrade muses. He’s not really annoyed.

‘Probably,’ agrees John. ‘The wimp. Oh well. What exactly are you looking for, anyway?’

‘That frozen fish murderer,’ Donovan pipes up. She has hastily removed herself from the vicinity of the dubious cupboard. ‘He’s got to have found something by now, he was hinting about it so hard yesterday morning.’

‘Was he?’ John, comfortable in his armchair, is decidedly uninterested. ‘Excellent. Do carry on.’

‘Shall we look in his bedroom, Sir?’ one of the younger sergeants is looking less sure of himself than Lestrade and Donovan. He’s looking at his boss, but it’s John who answers.

‘Sherlock’s? Go ahead?’ he waves his hand in the general direction. ‘You might want a biohazard suit, though. The fungus sporulation experiment that I insisted be moved out of the bath might still be lurking in there somewhere.’

Looking positively alarmed, the young man nevertheless hurries off. Perhaps he just wants to get away from a man who can talk about experiments like that with such casual acceptance.

‘Kitchen’s clean, Sir,’ Donovan leaves the room in question, looking irritable. ‘That is, unless you count the dubious collection of tissue samples in the vegetable drawer of the fridge, of course.’

‘Oh, are those still in there?’ for the first time since the beginning of this whole sorry charade, John looks peeved. ‘I told him to get rid of those last week, for goodness’ sake.’

Two constables are still busy pulling the living room apart, although John is doing an admirable job of ignoring them.

‘Can you pass me my mug of tea?’ is all he says when one of them passes between his chair and the coffee table. ‘Cheers.’

Lestrade has taken it upon himself to sit down in Sherlock’s chair.

‘Are you sure Sherlock hasn’t brought anything strange home in the last 24 hours?’ he asks John.

John hastily tries to turn his laugh into a cough. He is not successful.

‘Alright,’ Lestrade says, grimacing. ‘I take your point. How do you deal with it?’

‘Erm,’ John seems to be giving the question serious thought. ‘Patience? Selective blindness? Insanity? I don’t honestly know. Probably insanity. You should get me sectioned.’

‘Nothing in here either, Sir,’ one of the constables interrupts the laughter. ‘I am assuming that this skull is a permanent fixture and doesn’t belong to one of the victims of something, although that wouldn’t surprise me.’

‘The skull is a permanent resident,’ John assures him, still grinning.

‘Nothing in the bedroom,’ Donovan appears in the doorway with the other sergeant. She doesn’t look any happier than before. ‘Or the bathroom,’ she adds quickly, before hesitating. ‘Extreme amounts of over-the-counter painkillers and local anaesthetic aren’t deemed suspicious, are they?’

‘They bloody well shouldn’t be, knowing who lives here,’ John says, twisting in his chair to look at her in amusement. ‘Is that it then, are you done?’

‘I suppose so,’ Lestrade heaves himself up reluctantly, dismissing his team with a flick of his hand. They all tramp down the stairs slowly. Donovan leaves last, rolling her eyes in exasperation.

‘Well, nice seeing you, Greg,’ John grins at him, for all the world as if this has been a social call. The DI grins back at him. Casual drugs bust at your mates’ house on a Thursday evening? Nothing to it. Par for the course with Sherlock Holmes in your life.

‘You too,’ he says jovially. ‘Unless… he wouldn’t hide anything in your room, would he? Only, that’s exactly what he would do. We never search there and he would expect me to respect your privacy.’

He casually glosses over the fact that the very thing he’s not-so-casually asking to do is rather an invasion of John’s privacy, but he knows that John is ex-military, and if there’s anything that army types aren’t, it’s self-conscious. He’s not, therefore, expecting John’s reaction.

‘My room?’ John repeats dumbly. ‘Why would you want to check my room? It’s not like Sherlock would hide anything in there, he knows I would kill him.’

Lestrade blinks, confused.

‘I won’t rummage through your underwear drawer or anything,’ he promises hastily, wondering what on Earth could have triggered that reaction. John was quick to hide it, but there was a brief flicker of panic in his eyes. ‘Just a quick look under the bed and behind the door, so I can honestly say that I looked everywhere and found nothing.’

John seems to get a hold of himself.

‘Of course, of course,’ he says, a bit too casually. ‘Go on up, go on up. You know where to go. Straight upstairs, you can’t miss it. It’s the only door, hahaha. Sherlock would say that even that would stump some of the members of Scotland Yard. I’m babbling, I’m going to shut up…’ he trails off. His laugh is nervous.

Lestrade, who is halfway up the stairs by this point, frowns again. Does John honestly think he’s going to care if he finds John’s supply of condoms or something similar? It would be singularly unprofessional of him to mention it, even if he did happen across them.

***

Lestrade could kick himself. When he mentioned going upstairs to John’s room, it wasn’t embarrassment that had flooded John’s cheeks and his voice. It had been fear, actual proper fear, at what Lestrade might find. And now he knows why.

‘Oh John,’ he groans. ‘Oh John, oh John, oh John.’

He sits on John’s bed, motionless, for the best part of fifteen minutes, and isn’t that just the best plan? Because now there’s no pretending he hasn’t found it. John is going to know the second he walks downstairs, not only from his face but from the time he’s spent upstairs.

He stares at the small collection of things in his lap, feeling like all three of the Wise Men rolled into one horrible being. Cocaine, to numb mental pain and help you forget, just for a moment; oxycodone, to numb physical pain, and oh so fatal if taken in high doses; lorazepam, to knock you out and let the oxycodone take its course. He’s no doctor, but he’s not stupid, and the neat little labels penned by John himself help him out no end.

‘John, John, John,’ he whispers. He doesn’t know what to do. John trusted him not the find these things. And if the drawer in John’s bedside table hadn’t been left slightly pulled out, he wouldn’t have done.

Lestrade shakes himself and tries to collect his scattered thoughts. He’s assuming, of course, that these are John’s and not Sherlock’s, but John’s reaction downstairs seems to leave this as the only logical conclusion. Besides, if these were Sherlock’s, they’d have been halfway to the sewers approximately thirty seconds after John had discovered them. And the final proof? John’s writing.

He sits and stares, and sits and stares some more. His heart is pounding in his chest. It feels like a terrible invasion of his friend’s trust, but what choice does he have? John seems fine now, the shock from Sherlock’s fall and Sherlock’s return seems to have dissipated, but if he just puts them back now and…?

He scolds himself mentally. That isn’t an option. The guilt would kill him. Kill him for real, seeing as he’s no Sherlock. Anyway, he’s a police officer, and police officers cannot overlook the presence of drugs, be they legal or illegal, in someone’s house where they have no right to be. He steels himself, and then digs out his phone.

‘Donovan,’ he says briskly. ‘Go back to the Yard with the rest of the team. Yes, I’ll be along shortly. No, I don’t believe it’s any of your business. Goodbye.’

Then he takes a deep breath, shoves the contents of his lap back into the drawer where it came from, and stands up.

***

John knows. Of course John knows. Lestrade sees it in his face the minute he steps into the living room, and he knows that John can see that Lestrade sees that he knows. The silence stretches between them, tightly strung. Lestrade knows it’s his job to break it, his job to be the professional, but he just can’t. The John in front of him is so like the John that he thought was gone for good following Sherlock’s return.

It falls to John to speak first, of course it does. It always falls to John.

‘Going to arrest me?’ he asks dully. 

Lestrade starts. The idea honestly hadn’t occurred to him.

‘Huh?’ he says intelligently, cringing internally almost immediately. Good one, Greg. Nice move. Excellent job.

John smiles sadly.

‘I’m not stupid you know, Greg,’ he says. His eyes haven’t left Lestrade’s face. ‘I sense this may be a long conversation. Sit down, will you.’

Lestrade sinks into Sherlock’s chair and runs a hand over his face.

‘It’s yours, then?’ he asks stupidly, grimacing. He has got to sort himself out. Just another civilian, just another civilian, not John, not John, he’s just another civilian. He tries again. ‘The drugs, I assume they’re yours?’ 

That’s better – more official and less emotional. Perhaps there is something to Sherlock’s detached nature, after all.

‘Of course they’re mine, Greg,’ John’s voice is toneless. It jerks Lestrade unpleasantly back. ‘If they were Sherlock’s, do you really think I would have kept them for a minute longer than I had to?’

‘Standard procedure,’ Lestrade murmurs. He’s never been one for procedure, hence his bringing Sherlock onto all those crime scenes, but it’s the only way he’s going to get through this particular interview. ‘And would you mind telling me exactly why you have those particular drugs stashed upstairs and were exactly you got them from?’

John can’t meet his eyes any more.

‘Couldn’t give you a name or a description of the guy I got the cocaine from,’ he says. His voice is still that same flat monotone, and it makes something prickle uncomfortably at the back of Lestrade’s throat. ‘Couldn’t even tell you the area of London he was supplying at the time, I’m afraid. But I could, if you wish, point out the exact cupboards at the hospital where I took the lorazepam and the oxycodone from. I could give you dates and times too, if that would be helpful. Probably also potential witnesses, if you give me a chance to think.’

Lestrade clears his throat idiotically, taking a moment to pray fervently that Sherlock isn’t going to burst in any time soon.

‘Does Sher-, is anyone else at this residence complicit in your ownership of these drugs?’ he asks eventually, sticking stubbornly to police lingo.

‘You’d think Sherlock would have guessed, wouldn’t you?’ John’s tone is verging on amused but his eyes, fixed on a point on the wall above Lestrade’s head, are anything but. ‘But Sherlock doesn’t like to poke around too much at what went on during his… absence. At least he’s proving that he’s got some kind of self-preservation instinct in that way.’

Lestrade nods carefully, noting this subtle confirmation of what he had already suspected. He ploughs on with determination.

‘And the drugs on the premises right now, they’re the only drugs you’ve ever held in such a manner?’

John meets his eyes now, and God knows Lestrade can’t hold them. There’s too much that he doesn’t want to see.

‘There was more cocaine initially,’ John’s words are paper thin and barely reach Lestrade’s ears, so it’s really quite miraculous the way they seem to hang in the air indefinitely.

Lestrade forces his eyes upwards and meets John’s again. The police officer act melts away as instantly and thoroughly as ice in the oven, and he’s on his feet next to John’s chair, his hand gripping the other man’s shoulder tightly. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to.

‘It was while Sherlock was away,’ John eventually stammers out. Lestrade tries to wordlessly silence him with a brief squeeze of his shoulder. He doesn’t want to hear this, he really doesn’t, but apparently John needs to say it and John’s needs are clearly more important than his right now, so he stays silent.

‘It was while Sherlock was away,’ John tries again. He’s addressing the wall, staring at it as if his life depends on it. ‘I got the cocaine first, but I didn’t use it. I couldn’t bring myself to. It sounds stupid, but… it was like I was encroaching on Sherlock’s territory, and I couldn’t let myself do that. It would be like Sherlock really was gone, and now I had to take his drugs for him because he wasn’t here to do it himself. Even if he hadn’t taken them in however many years, it was still wrong.’

John pauses for a moment and shivers. It’s not cold in the flat.

‘So, yes, anyway,’ he continues after a minute. His voice is still dead. Lestrade hates it, every second of it. ‘I decided that if I was too much of a bloody wimp to take the sodding cocaine, I didn’t really have much purpose here anymore. So I raided the cupboards at work. Lorazepam and oxycodone were the first things I put my hands on.’

At this point, John twists to look up at Lestrade. Lestrade doesn’t have a clue what his own face looks like, but he’s glad to see that John’s eyes are dry.

‘I know you don’t want to hear this, Greg,’ John says quietly. ‘But when you arrest me, it will help to have all the facts, won’t it?’

Lestrade has to swallow several times.

‘Arrest you?’ he croaks out. ‘Why would I arrest you?’

John just looks at him. The John he knows, the John who marshals Sherlock like a nursery school teacher with a particularly rambunctious pupil and who comes for pints with the rest of Lestrade’s team after an especially taxing case, that John would make a joke at this point, something witty and Sherlock-like about the intelligence of the Metropolitan Police Service. The John in front of him doesn’t. The John in front of him doesn’t look like he could make a joke if someone pointed a gun to his head. If someone pointed a gun to Sherlock’s head, well, that’s another matter.

‘Well,’ John seems determined to see this through. ‘I got those home that evening and just stared at them. Stared and stared and stared, for over an hour. If Mrs Hudson hadn’t come home earlier than I expected her to and told me that I was having a cup of tea with her downstairs whether I liked it or not, then…’

Lestrade’s head is ringing. How had they missed this? Granted, he hadn’t exactly been John’s favourite person at this particular point in time, and that is something he will feel guilty about for the rest of his life, but still, someone should have seen. Someone at the hospital should have spotted the suicidal doctor in their midst. His heart clenches painfully.

‘I was so determined to do it that night,’ John interrupts Lestrade’s painful thoughts. ‘But by the time I came back upstairs, I’d lost my nerve. Good old Mrs Hudson saved my life that night, and she never even knew it. And she mustn’t,’ he suddenly looks up at Lestrade fiercely, his eyes burning. ‘You must not tell her.’

Underneath the distress, Lestrade can hear the commanding officer in his tone.

‘Of course not,’ Lestrade is clear on that. He looks down at John. Suddenly, he does need to know. ‘And the cocaine?’ he prompts tentatively.

‘Took it about a week later,’ John offers. ‘I spent that week cursing myself for being a bloody coward. After that, cocaine didn’t seem like such a big deal anymore.’

‘Just the once?’ Lestrade asks, holding his breathe slightly.

‘Once,’ confirms John. He’s still staring up at Lestrade. His eyes look a bit more alive even if his voice sounds anything but. ‘Never again.’

***

Lestrade is still at the flat half an hour later, although neither one of them has spoken another word in that time.

‘I’m okay now,’ John offers slowly, breaking the silence. Relief courses through Lestrade when he hears the colour back in John’s voice. ‘I can see you’re worrying about it, but I’m not going to do anything stupid.’

‘Why do you still have the drugs then?’ Lestrade can’t help himself. It doesn’t fit.

John flushes.

‘It,’ he begins hesitantly. ‘It feels like they’re holding Sherlock here, in a way. Sherlock jumped off that sodding building to protect me – and you and Mrs Hudson of course – and now… It’s stupid,’ he stops suddenly, shaking his head. ‘It’s so, so stupid and I know it is, but if I keep those things in the house, even if Sherlock doesn’t know about them, then there’s something here for him to protect me from. He doesn’t have to throw himself off any buildings, or under a car or in front of a gun to protect me, because if he did that then he couldn’t protect me from myself, what with the drugs being here.’

He looks up at Lestrade.

‘That’s not– ’ Lestrade starts to say, before stopping at the look on John’s face.

‘It is,’ he says firmly. ‘It’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever thought of or said in my entire life, and I’ll thank you just to forget I ever said it.’

‘As you wish,’ Lestrade inclines his head, knowing that John knows it’s impossible.

‘Sherlock would be appalled at such irrationality,’ John is suddenly smiling slightly. ‘I can hear him now… “Honestly John, you are seeking to maintain my presence here by way of a small amount of narcotics which I have no knowledge of, but you are merely hoping that they have some unspecified pull which will keep me here when that may otherwise go against my wishes. I’m disappointed in you.”’

‘Well, we’re all disappointments to Sherlock,’ Lestrade says, straight faced.

John smiles again.

‘The only thing that isn’t a disappointment to Sherlock is a nice juicy murder,’ he acknowledges. ‘Hang on, have you thought that Sherlock may be chasing up clues and evidence for that ridiculous fish murderer right now? The very evidence you were hoping to find in this flat, for instance.’

‘The thought had occurred,’ Lestrade admits. ‘But I found myself a rather more pressing matter to deal with.’

‘Oh, yes,’ John’s face drops slightly, but he catches himself. ‘Have you got your handcuffs with you?’

‘What on God’s good Earth are you talking about?’ Lestrade demands good naturedly.

‘Misuse of Drugs Act,’ John frowns at him. ‘Possession of Class A’s. Not to mention the theft from the hospital. I should probably be struck off for that.’

‘I’m not going to arrest you, you great idiot,’ Lestrade bites back a chuckle. John stills seems in too much of a fragile state to be openly laughed at.

John blinks.

‘Are you sure?’ he asks. ‘I’m fairly sure that what I’ve done is illegal.’

‘Yes, and I’m equally sure that you weren’t in your right mind when you acquired such substances,’ Lestrade replies. ‘And therefore, this never happened. There was a search of your house for evidence, which did not yield any useful results. I sent my team back to the Yard and stayed here with you to a have a cup of tea. It’s really very unprofessional, wasting police time like that.’

John just looks at him.

‘I can’t ask you to do that,’ he protests.

‘You’re not, and that’s why I am,’ Lestrade is firm on this. ‘Besides, do you really think I want to have to go back to dealing with Sherlock on my own if you go to prison? Let alone deal with the wrath of Sherlock if I’m the one who puts his best friend in prison in the first place?’

‘I’m not sure I could leave you to cope with that on your own,’ John agrees. He’s smiling, but he still looks hesitant. ‘Are you– ?’

‘Of course I’m sure,’ Lestrade says, standing up to leave. ‘And now, I really must be getting back to the station. Will you be okay?’

John nods firmly, and follows Lestrade’s lead in standing up. What Lestrade really wants to do now is give the poor man a hug, but he knows that the army officer, and indeed the English man, inside his friend would not appreciate that.

‘I’ll be off then,’ he says, unnecessarily as he’s heading for the door. ‘Call me if Sherlock turns up with any fishy.’

‘Oh, get out,’ John groans. ‘That was even worse than your normal jokes.’

Laughing to himself, Lestrade makes his way down the stairs. He stops halfway down when he hears John’s voice.

‘I will get rid of it, you know,’ he says, so quietly he could almost be talking to himself. Almost.

‘Take your time,’ Lestrade suggests to the wall in front of him. ‘I understand your reasons for keeping it.’

‘By the next drugs bust, then?’ 

John is chuckling to himself. Lestrade has to laugh too.


	2. What Sherlock Found Out (Mostly) by Deduction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So originally this was just a one-shot type affair, but then someone asked about a sequel with Sherlock finding out and I started thinking about it. Then someone else asked about a sequel and I started think about it more and realised I really quite liked the idea. I think the final straw was probably the fact that I should be revising for my end-of-year exams right now and writing suddenly seems so much more attractive as a result. Oops...
> 
> Anyway, this didn't really turn out how I originally planned it - I was going to leave a significant period of time between Lestrade's discovery and Sherlock's, but then I started writing and this is the result. I'm not disappointed. It seems realistic that Sherlock would immediately pick up that something had happened, even if he wasn't sure what.
> 
> After that nice little ramble, I hope you enjoy this added extra. If you asked about a sequel then a million thank yous, it sparked some new ideas and I was flattered that you asked, so here it is!

Sherlock regularly invades John’s room without permission, or at least he used to. It’s not as if John minds – modesty and privacy are rather limited commodities in the forces, after all, so he's used to it – and there’s never been a problem before, although even John has been known to grow tired of being woken up in the middle of the night because Sherlock wants one of his old medical school textbooks or to monitor his breathing patterns in his sleep.

Mindful of this, Sherlock has done his best to keep away from John’s room since his resurrection, reasoning that doing as little to antagonise his friend as possible is probably for the best at this time. Since his return he has not, therefore, allowed himself to indulge in any of the usual snooping which has been known to occur, just once or maybe twice, while Sherlock’s been bored and John’s been out. And really, if he will go out and leave his room unattended, what does he expect to happen?

***

It has always been frustrating to Sherlock that people are more difficult to deduce than situations. Since they were boys, Mycroft has been the one for reading people and Sherlock the one for reading scenarios. People are unpredictable, emotional and easily swayed – all qualities which make rationality that little bit harder. Still, when he returns from the docks, happy and flushed with his triumphant expedition, it’s not exactly difficult for Sherlock to see that John is shaken. It’s also child’s play to deduce the drugs bust which has been carried out in his absence. Lestrade should definitely think up another ploy – this one is getting unbelievably dull.

Sherlock frowns a little in the doorway. A drugs bust. And now John is upset. That won’t do. What does John do when people are like this? Ah.

‘Tea, John?’ he asks, by way of announcing his arrival.

John jumps about a foot into the air, which given that he is sitting down is quite a feat.

‘I’m good, thanks,’ he says eventually, looking at Sherlock with something that looks suspiciously like trepidation. Definitely upset about something.

Sherlock frowns a little more. This reply does not fit with previous data. Different approach needed.

‘Erm,’ he says. This is not his strong point. This is John’s job.

_Help me out, John._

And John, ever obliging, does.

‘There was a drugs bust,’ he says suddenly, his eyes clearing far too quickly. ‘Although you’ve probably already realised that, haven’t you?’

‘Obviously,’ Sherlock says briskly. It’s back to business as usual then. Lovely. ‘Lestrade is idiotic. There’s nothing here.’

John flinches. Minutely, but if Sherlock can’t pick up on these things then no-one can.

‘He knows that now,’ says John steadily. His voice is being carefully modulated.

‘Even if there was anything, he wouldn’t find it,’ Sherlock replies dismissively.

John flinches again. So Lestrade did find something. Something of John’s. Interesting.

A few minutes of silence follows, while Sherlock frees himself from the confines of his coat and paces up and down a few times, allowing himself to dwell partially on the look that will appear on Lestrade’s face when he is presented with his desperately-needed evidence tomorrow. The rest of his brain is occupied with a new, and currently more intriguing, puzzle.

‘Lestrade doesn’t normally go into your room,’ Sherlock says suddenly, after several minutes’ worth of pacing. ‘Why was he in there today?’

‘What?’ John snaps, his head jerking up to stare at Sherlock from his armchair.

‘Lestrade doesn’t normally go into your room,’ Sherlock repeats irritably. Really, he loathes having to reiterate a point. 

‘What’s that got to do with anything?’ 

John’s voice has dropped to dangerously low levels with very little provocation. Intriguing. A reaction that strong suggests something much more than a mildly embarrassing object. A raid of an underwear drawer or something similar would have brought momentary embarrassment, but both John and Lestrade would have been able to laugh that off almost instantly. Unless it was Sally Donovan. Sherlock has to repress a shudder but no; the reaction is too excessive, even for that.

‘I asked you a question, Sherlock,’ John says sternly, interrupting Sherlock’s thoughts. The commanding officer is creeping into his tone.

‘Well, clearly something happened this evening which you are uncomfortable with,’ Sherlock says absentmindedly. His mind is racing ahead as he speaks. ‘And, equally clearly, Lestrade and his idiotic band of subordinates who he likes to refer to as police officers have barged their illegal – or at the very least dubiously legal – way into the flat during my absence. Nothing else within the flat is in any way different compared to when I left – and you haven’t had your laptop on so it can’t have been an email from your sister nor have you left the flat so it was nothing outside nor are there any unpleasant and unknown experiments for you to have discovered – so the obvious conclusion is that something happened during the so-called drugs bust which distressed you. Maybe one of the officers, most likely to be Donovan, said something to you which was upsetting but we - or more accurately, I, but you become inevitably drawn into it - are subjected to this on a regular basis when around the Met, so unless it was something particularly unpleasant this is unlikely. More likely is that something was discovered while the police were here, something that you’d rather they hadn’t found. If it was something you’d rather they not know about then it’s not something you’d keep in any of the areas that we share, so it must have been some object which you keep in your bedroom. So, why did Lestrade go in there? He knows I don’t store evidence in your room – it’s far too far away from everything else and very inconvenient.’

John has gone very still. Sherlock knows he has made a mistake. He just isn’t quite sure what it is.

Sherlock has learnt over the years that when John storms upstairs to his room and shuts his bedroom door, before opening it again only to slam it shut once more, that he doesn’t want to be disturbed. So instead of following John upstairs to call deductions about John’s strop through the door, as he realised was a bad idea when one such incident ended with a physiology textbook being chucked unceremoniously at his head, Sherlock throws himself onto the sofa and remains there for a long while, motionless and deep in thought.

From John’s reaction to his deductions he clearly touched a rather raw nerve, and that means he is correct. All that remains is to work out exactly what Lestrade found in John’s room. 

Sherlock knows that it must have been Lestrade who searched John’s room – they’ve never searched it before and so whatever Lestrade’s reasons for doing it this time, mostly likely a misplaced sense of duty that he should probably check the whole flat so that he doesn’t have to tell a small mistruth to his superiors later, he would have carried it out himself, out of respect for John. 

John and Lestrade are, after all, friends. At least, they were previously. Is that likely to have changed? Sherlock frowns. He is no expert on relationships, quite the opposite really, but it would seem logical that John would be slightly angrier than he seemed earlier if a friendship had broken down just hours previously, in spite of petty trivialities like who might have been at fault for such a thing. An absence of anger, at least until Sherlock’s arrival, seems to indicate that the incident involved something which John would be embarrassed about and upset by, but which wouldn’t bother Lestrade nearly as much. 

With this, along with a lack of worry on John’s behalf, the fleeting idea that John’s handgun might have been discovered is dismissed. Sherlock hasn’t really been entertaining it anyway, given that he knows how securely it is protected. He also has a sneaking suspicion that Mycroft has taken care of the issue surrounding the illegality of the weapon, although come to think of it Sherlock doesn’t seem to recall ever informing John of this fact, so a lack of worry on John's behalf does seem indicative of the continued secret existence of the revolver. On balance, the gun seems an unlikely candidate. Sherlock pushes it away without a second thought.

Something personal seems a likely option. People can be oddly sensitive about their possessions, particularly those which can reveal more about them then they would perhaps like to be revealed. This seems like a good candidate. A personal item would make John feel uncomfortable but would not lead to any other repercussions, except perhaps a slightly strained working relationship with Lestrade on the next couple of cases that the Met are too incompetent to solve by themselves.

Sherlock nods to himself, without realising he’s doing it. A personal object, probably viewed by John as intensely private, seeing as Sherlock himself doesn’t know about it. Or if he does then he doesn’t know its significance, which seems incredibly unlikely. He dismisses this idea. It must be an object that he doesn’t know exists. This only serves to add weight to the Lestrade-found-something-in-John’s-room theory, although Sherlock doesn’t consider that that theory needs any more evidence in its favour.

There are several classes of private and personal items, of course. Broadly, these could fall into the categories of physical and emotional. In the physical category are items such as underwear and objects for fulfilling certain primordial desires. Anything in this group seems unlikely. The military squeezes the modesty out of a man and therefore the discovery of such an object would cause a brief moment of embarrassment, perhaps, but nothing to brood over for any significant period of time. Unless, of course, there were a large number of such objects, perhaps pertaining to slightly unusual tastes. Sherlock pauses to contemplate the idea that John Watson has some kind of fetish sex den set up upstairs, constructed during his absence, of course, as he would’ve noticed that had it been present previously. He dismisses the idea. It seems unlikely, although, it has to be said, not impossible.

A personal item of some kind of emotional significance seems much more plausible. A simple love letter or something similar doesn’t fit quite right – Lestrade would have had to have read the letter for the incident to have had any real magnitude, and Lestrade respects and likes John far too much to do that. Plus, he is, despite Sherlock’s frequent insinuations to the contrary, a semi-competent police officer and therefore does have some idea about how to behave while searching someone else’s property.

It is beginning to dawn on Sherlock that this incident must have had some resonance with a particularly upsetting period of time in John’s life, as pure embarrassment alone cannot account for the expression and general demeanour which Sherlock witnessed when he arrived home. That would make sense – something which Lestrade uncovered which made John uncomfortable, but perhaps mostly in the way in which it reminded him of something which he would rather forget, leading to the prolonged sorrow.

An upsetting time in John’s life, then. There is, of course, an obvious answer to that question which springs to mind immediately. Sherlock frowns, and speaks out loud for the first time in a long while.

‘What could John have hidden away in his room which would remind him of my absence?’ he asks the room at large.

He supposes it is unfair of him to assume that this is to do with him. There are a whole manner of things which ordinary people would find it upsetting to be reminded about. Something to do with John’s military service, perhaps, which reminded him of a lost comrade, although John has always been very pragmatic about such matters, as all good soldiers must be. Or maybe a particularly upsetting incident involving a patient, maybe a child who died – people always seem to get far more sentimental when children are involved – but again, good doctors must remain above such things.

Sherlock scowls unhappily. Emotions really aren’t his area. He supposes this whole situation could be linked to a former romantic attachment of John’s, but he knows that in the years that they have known each other, John has not formed any romantic attachments strong enough to trigger such a reaction. There was no girlfriend while John was in Afghanistan, Sherlock also knows this, so any such individual would have to date back a good few years, and surely that is too long a period of time to induce unhappiness in a former partner? Sherlock is not terribly au fait with John’s entire dating history, and this suddenly seems like an unacceptable oversight.

After due and careful consideration, Sherlock comes to the conclusion that a private object pertaining to an upsetting and perhaps traumatic period of John’s life was discovered by Lestrade in John’s bedroom, leading to John’s current unhappy state of mind. The primary candidate for this upsetting and traumatic period remains his absence.

‘But what could it be?’ Sherlock mutters to himself. ‘What could it be that is linked so strongly to my absence in John’s head? Human beings make the oddest connections, but it must be significant to have such a profound effect.’

‘Worked it out, have you?’ 

John’s voice, coming from the doorway, startles Sherlock. He must have been thinking a lot deeper than he had judged.

‘Not yet,’ Sherlock replies, frustrated. ‘Not quite. I’m missing something.’

‘I reckon you’re over-thinking it,’ John says conversationally. His general demeanour seems at odds with the way in which he left Sherlock’s company, was that really over an hour ago? 

In order to check the time, Sherlock opens his eyes for the first time since John’s entry into the room and then almost immediately flicks his eyes over John. There is something in his hands, or a collection of somethings. Seeing that John has no imminent plans to move from the doorway, Sherlock sits up a little straighter and squints over.

A collection of vials and little bags. Oh. John doesn’t seem the type. 

An actual drugs bust, then? Ironic. Obviously, whatever John’s reasons, Lestrade let those and his friendship with John override any feelings of police duty which might have been threatening to make themselves known. That’s decent of him, but unsurprising really. Lestrade always has been a decent chap. He helped Sherlock out, all those years ago.

Slowly, Sherlock lets his eyes wander up to John’s face. He is pale and his eyes are calm, but there are still several tell-tale signs of distress hovering around John’s features. John is still upset, then, but resigned to the fact that Sherlock will eventually find out the facts for himself so finds it preferable that this is done on his own terms.

‘Surprised?’ John asks. His voice, unlike his face, is expressionless.

‘A little,’ Sherlock admits. ‘This wasn’t something I had factored in. Although it does fit within the stipulations of what I had deduced, so I wasn’t exactly wrong. I cannot be blamed for not having enough data and my deductions were quite correct as far as – ’

‘Now is not really the time to go on about how brilliant you are, Sherlock,’ John interrupts him. 

Normally when John makes such an interruption into Sherlock’s stream of consciousness, he sounds at the very least a little peeved. Now he just sounds blank. Sherlock frowns. Perhaps he is not being sensitive enough. How does one go about increased sensitivity?

‘Do you want to, erm, talk about it?’ Sherlock offers tentatively.

John laughs, he actually laughs. Sherlock immediately marks that little experiment off as a success. Alright, it’s quite a dry laugh and sincere amusement is plainly lacking, but it’s far better than blank indifference.

‘No,’ John says. ‘I want to talk and I want you to listen. No talking is going to occur on your behalf.’

Sherlock is a little put out. Talking is one of the things he is best at. Maybe that’s why John wants him to stay silent. Hmm.

‘So you’ve got it all figured out now then?’ John asks, taking a couple of steps into the room.

Sherlock just looks at him mutely.

‘Oh for God’s sake,’ John snaps, a little irritably but without real heat. Still sensitive, but not really angry. ‘You can answer when I ask you a question, Sherlock. Don’t play the fool; it doesn’t suit you.’

‘Of course I’ve got it worked out,’ Sherlock says instantly. ‘Although cocaine, John, really? A little dull, isn’t it? Mundane.’

John’s mouth twists into something that might be an attempt at an imitation of a smile.

‘I don’t think you’re really one to be talking about things like that, are you?’ he says mirthlessly. ‘And anyway, that’s not even half of it. Want to take a look?’

‘Bring it here,’ Sherlock instructs him casually. The look he gets in response means that Sherlock finds himself on his feet and halfway across the room towards John before he evens knows what he’s doing.

John holds out his cupped hands in front of him.

Oh. _Oh._

Sherlock sits back down hastily.

‘Yes,’ John’s smile is utterly without humour this time. ‘Doesn’t seem like me, does it?’

Sherlock says nothing. His mind is racing. He knew when he left that John would suffer, obviously, and he saw the evidence of that when he returned, but this? It’s several minutes before he speaks again. John hasn’t said a word.

‘You weren’t suicidal when we first met,’ Sherlock says offhandedly.

‘Don’t,’ John snaps.

‘Don’t what?’ Sherlock frowns. What has he done this time?

‘Don’t say that word,’ John hisses.

‘Come now, John,’ Sherlock is bemused. ‘Surely a man of your intelligence and education knows that there is no threat from a mere word.’

‘Don’t you dare,’ John says. His eyes are as hard as steel. ‘You don’t get to patronise me about this, Sherlock. You don’t have the right.’

‘I’m not patronising you,’ protests Sherlock, ignoring the look of scepticism that John throws him. ‘I’m merely stating that you weren’t suicidal when we met and, upon my departure, your life would have reverted back to a similar form to your life just prior to when we met, so I am surprised at this alteration in your mental state.’

‘My life reverted back to a similar state to what it was before we met?’ John echoes. To Sherlock’s ear, he sounds rather disbelieving. ‘Bloody hell, Sherlock, is that what you think? I’ve explained this all to you so many times. I didn’t just lose the excitement and the adventure, I lost you. That’s far worse than anything I lost when I came back from Afghanistan.’

‘Well yes, obviously I know that,’ Sherlock says, somewhat impatiently. ‘I’m just expressing surprise that your mental state would have shifted so much.’

‘Well,’ John sounds moderately appeased. ‘It did. So don’t patronise me about it.’

Sherlock stays silent. This requires careful handling; the kind of careful handling that he is not equipped to handle. Where is Mycroft when you need him? Sherlock represses a slight shudder. As useful as Mycroft might be in this situation, and it pains Sherlock to even admit this in the first place, this is a matter for him and John to solve on their own. It’s no-one else’s business. Sherlock wants to help, to understand, and he just has to work out how.

‘You said you wanted to talk,’ Sherlock says eventually, still trying to work out if this is the right thing to say even as the words come out of his mouth. ‘Do you want to tell me? I’ll listen. I can listen.’

‘I’ve already done this once today with Lestrade,’ John mutters. Sherlock is unsure whether he’s being addressed or if John’s talking to himself, so he makes no comment.

Apparently deep in thought, John makes his way over to his armchair and sits down heavily. His hands are still clutching the drugs very tightly. Sherlock has a sudden urge to unclench John’s fingers for him before pouring the whole lot down the drain. Good riddance.

‘I got the cocaine first,’ John says suddenly. Sherlock shifts all his attention onto John’s words. He rarely pays this much attention to something that someone else is saying. John should be flattered. ‘Felt a bit useless, depressed, the usual candidates. Didn’t take it for a while. It didn’t seem right, I couldn’t bring myself to, whatever reason you like. Then I felt a bit more useless. Nicked the other stuff from the hospital. Brought it home. Didn’t take it, obviously, but it was a close thing. Then I tried some of the cocaine. It’s horrible. I don’t know why anyone – ’ The implied ‘you’ is left unacknowledged by both of them ‘ – would take that stuff more than once voluntarily. Anyway, never touched the other stuff again. I’m glad about it now, obviously.’

Sherlock’s brain is screaming a million different things at him, but he ignores them all.

Poor John. Poor, poor John. 

And what was he just saying about mere words not having the power to hurt you?

‘John,’ Sherlock says. He cannot stay quiet. ‘I’m – ’ _I’m sorry._ ‘I didn’t know.’

John’s eyes acknowledge this.

‘I know you didn’t,’ he says. _That’s okay, Sherlock. I accept your apology._ ‘I would say it’s not your fault, but it sort of is. It’s not all your fault, though. I did what I did, and it’s only down to me. Just perhaps don’t go faking your death on me again, huh?’

‘I wouldn’t,’ Sherlock says. It’s the most sincere thing he has ever uttered.

There is silence for a while. It is not uncomfortable.

‘I’m not, you know, going to use them,’ John says eventually. The remark would seem offhand but for the preceding conversation.

‘I know,’ says Sherlock briskly. ‘Obviously.’

John laughs. It sounds genuine this time, and Sherlock would know.

‘So why haven’t you got rid of them then?’ Sherlock asks, still a little confused. ‘I’m back, I’m not going anywhere again, and given my history with illicit substances I’d have thought you’d have wanted them out of the house as soon as possible once I returned.’

‘It doesn’t work like that, Sherlock,’ John explains, not unkindly. ‘I’m not sure you’d quite understand and you’d definitely think I was ridiculous, so I think I’ll keep my reasons to myself for now if you don’t mind. Deduce them if you will, but kindly do that in your own head and repress the need to announce your findings to whoever might be in the room at the time, and certainly don’t tell them to me. I know my own reasons and I don’t need you to remind me of them.’

‘Sentiment?’ Sherlock frowns, a bit out of his depth.

‘Yes, sentiment,’ John nods. ‘Can we drop it now? I’m starving and dinner probably won’t cook itself.’


End file.
